Telephone
by NothingFromNowhereImNoOneAtAll
Summary: SLASH. "Stop calling, stop calling, I don't want to think anymore. I left my head and my heart on the dance floor." All Mistoffelees wants is an escape. One-shot. TuggerXMisto. Second in the "Head Over Heels" series.


I'm back!

This is the second in my "Head Over Heels" series. I initially wrote "Pillow Talk", this story's predecessor, as a one-shot, but when I got the idea to write this, I couldn't get it through my head that the two were unrelated. Therefore, I decided to make a series—but more info can be found on my profile.

This story takes place about a week after the events in "Pillow Talk". It can be read as a one-shot independent of the series' first installment, but it probably does help to read them together, as this story makes mention of things touched on in "Pillow Talk".

To be honest, I'm not even really sure what genre this story is, but, whatever. Also, if you couldn't tell, this was almost single-handedly inspired by Lady GaGa's song "Telephone" in terms of plot and everything, though it's not actually a songfic. Just letting you know.

I don't own "CATS"—it is the respective property of The Really Useful Group (RUG) and T.S. Eliot and his estate. This is all written for fun.

As far as visualizations go, I picture the characters as they appear in the musical—anthropomorphic cat-people. In this series in particular, I take it a step further, as they not only live in apartments and dance in clubs, but they wear normal clothing over the costumes worn in the show. Hope that clears things up.

A special thank you to my friend Kate, who enjoys Mistoffelees' hips as much as I do—and that, my friends, is saying a LOT.

Thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you for part three!

**

* * *

**

**"Telephone"**

Mistoffelees was vaguely aware that his phone was ringing.

It was hard to tell from the electric beat that pounded from the speakers at the head of the dance floor, but he was half-certain that he could hear the dulcet chimes of his ringtone. If he focused, he could feel it vibrating in his pocket.

Third time tonight.

He shut his eyes and, with some effort, focused on the driving bass of the dance music. The song playing was generic enough—all choppy vocals and drum machine core—but when Mistoffelees opened his eyes again, he was wearing a smile. Rolling his hips in time with the beat, the tuxedo looked to the side and saw a few pairs of eyes following his every move.

He couldn't hear his phone anymore, and Mistoffelees' grin grew wider.

With a swish of his tail, he exhaled and moved in time with the music. His eyes fell closed as his hips swayed from side to side, the conglomeration of club-goers writhing about him. Already, the tuxedo had gotten some attention from the other toms—a few following eyes, a few smiles, and more than his share of winks.

He had to admit—it was nice being the center of attention every now and again.

Strobe lights pulsed overhead in time with the pounding beat—red, blue, green, and back again. Crowded together on the expanse of the dance floor, well-dressed toms and a few excitable queens twisted together, all hips and tails and self-satisfied smirks. Across the floor, Mistoffelees could see his very heterosexual friend Mungojerrie dancing amidst some giggling toms. He laughed, thanking the Everlasting Cat that his friend was such a good sport.

The air was close and hot around him, and the tuxedo gave another roll of his hips. He braced himself on strong legs, arching his back as he gave a sideways glance to a grinning shorthair. A breath and a grin and his hips slowly swiveled as he straightened himself. The music dictating the movement of his body, his mind was blissfully at ease. Blank.

It was nice to be so unburdened.

Arms above his head, Mistoffelees took a step out, tail swinging in synchrony with the lusty rhythm. He pushed his shoulders back and stretched, but all of a sudden, he felt a pair of hands settling on his waist, breath blowing at the back of his neck.

Someone was grinding against him.

Blinking rapidly, and shaking off his dance-induced stupor, Mistoffelees whirled on the spot to face the culprit, the hands sliding from his waist. What he found was a particularly lean Manx with red spots on his ears and a smile on his lips.

The Manx gave a breath of a laugh. "Sorry about that," he shouted over the pounding music. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Mistoffelees shook his head with a light laugh of his own, still trying to collect himself. "No, no, it's okay," he said, his voice nearly getting swallowed, and he held up a hand. "I just wasn't expecting that, is all."

The other tom grinned wider, club-goers dancing in the background. "In a gay club? Really?"

Returning the grin, Mistoffelees gave a half-shrug. "Guess it was a little too hopeful to think so," he all but yelled.

Taking a step closer, the Manx offered a hand. "Jonathan," he said, and his brown eyes flickered to the small tom's hips.

Pretending not to notice Jonathan's gaze, the tuxedo took his hand and said with a swish of his tail, "Mistoffelees."

A little flirting never hurt anyone.

Jonathan's red ears picked up at the sound of the name. "Mistoffelees?" he repeated, edging closer for better hearing. "That's quite a name."

The tuxedo laughed and replied with a, "Thanks. I think my mom read it in a book or something."

"It's got character." Jonathan was still smiling. "I like it."

"I do, too." The Manx couldn't take his eyes off of him, and the tuxedo celebrated a private victory.

His tail swung from side to side as the song playing overhead changed; it had a different vocalist, but the bass remained constant. Club music—it still confounded Mistoffelees, but he was somehow learning to like it. He lowered his gaze—though he could feel the way his companion was looking at him, his hips itched to move with the beat of the music again. Absently, he sought out Mungojerrie on the dance floor, barely picking himself up on his toes, and found him grinding against a slim Burmese. A laugh emitted from his throat.

"See, uh, something funny?"

Mistoffelees turned to see that Jonathan had taken another step closer. He shook his head and asked, "Um. What?"

"You were laughing." With a straight face, the Manx gestured to the head of the dance floor. "It looked like you saw something funny up there."

"Oh. Sorry about that." Mistoffelees put on another smile. "I just saw a friend of mine."

Jonathan's lips curled into another grin. "No problem," he said, house lights flashing from red to green above him. "So." His voice was smooth. "What do you do for a living?"

Mistoffelees answered with, "I'm a dance instructor at the studio downtown, actually."

The Manx nodded his head. "What kind of dance?" he asked, and his companion could see that he was leaning closer. "Ballet, jazz, tap?"

"Ballet, mostly," came the response, still barely audible over the club music. "And mostly to little kids, but I've given some classes to adults, too. Every now and again, I try to get parts in local shows."

"Really?" The way Jonathan kept grinning, Mistoffelees was starting to feel uneasy. "You like working with kids?"

For a moment, his smile was genuine. "Definitely—they're just so enthusiastic about everything, you know?"

"Sounds like fun," Jonathan murmured, gaze tracing Mistoffelees' outline.

Suddenly, the tuxedo didn't feel like flirting anymore. "Y'know, it—um—it really is."

A mischievous glint flashed in the Manx's eyes, and Mistoffelees felt his stomach lurch. "So, uh, why don't you show me a few dance moves, then?" Jonathan asked, hands finding their way to the tuxedo's hips, thumbs toying with his beltloops. "Give me a lesson while we're here?"

With an uncomfortable laugh, the small tom took a step away from his companion. "I-I wasn't really looking for anyone tonight," he said, moving Jonathan's hands off his hips, and the latter looked stunned. "But thanks for the offer."

The Manx shook his head, then gave another charming smile that Mistoffelees couldn't help but equate to someone else he knew. "Come on, it's not like I'm trying to take you home or anything," Jonathan said. "It's just a bit of fun."

Another laugh. "Not the kind of fun I'm looking for, thanks," Mistoffelees replied as cordially as he could, taking an extra step backwards.

"Well, you're really cute. Can I just call you sometime or—?"

Mistoffelees' phone was ringing again.

As good a time as any, the tuxedo decided, and he dug it out from his pocket, pretending to analyze the caller ID. "Sorry," he announced, looking up from the phone in his hand and giving Jonathan a smile. "But I'd better take this—it's my boss."

Jonathan's grin fell from his lips. "Your boss is calling you right now?"

"So it seems."

With a shrug and a sigh, Jonathan muttered, "Suit yourself."

Mistoffelees mouthed a "Thank you" to the Manx before turning away and slipping through the crowd. Phone still ringing, he tiptoed around the various club-goers until he reached the edge of the dance floor. The nearby bar in his sights, he put his phone to his ear and pressed "Ignore."

The device went silent, and Mistoffelees felt like he could breathe again.

The music was a little less ear-splitting on this side of the room, and the tuxedo made his way to an empty corner of the bar. Behind the counter, a female Korat gave Mistoffelees a nod and as the latter took a seat, he piped up with, "Vodka rocks, please?"

The bartender turned and poured Mistoffelees' glass. From his seat, the tuxedo's gaze traveled along the crowd—the ones who were grinding against each other, the ones dancing by themselves, and the impatient ones who were dragging their respective partners towards the bathrooms. As his drink was served behind him, Mistoffelees let out a deep sigh.

He took a sip from the glass, setting his phone on the bar top. It felt _nice_ to be so unburdened.

His eyes moved to see Mungojerrie making his way off the dance floor, smiling as he approached the bar. The orange tabby taking a seat, Mistoffelees couldn't help but crack a smirk. "I saw you with that Burmese."

"An' I saw you with that Manx," Mungojerrie retorted, his grin as large as ever. He ordered a glass of Scotch from the bartender and turned toward the crowd. "Havin' fun?"

"Well, it's not ballet," Mistoffelees replied, scanning the crowd again, "but it's really enjoyable."

"Glad to hear it, mate." The tabby crossed his legs, and his tail swung lazily beneath his seat. He'd cleaned up nicely, at his friend's request: he wore black pants and a freshly laundered shirt, though Mistoffelees could see that he hadn't forgone his favorite pair of boots. "You seemed pretty popular out there," Mungojerrie mused with a grin.

"Nowhere near as popular as you," the tuxedo teased, and he looked back at his friend. "And here I thought you didn't like toms."

"What can I say?" Mungojerrie asked with a shrug, drink in his hand. "Your lot is _loads_ of fun to dance with."

A smirk playing on his lips, Mistoffelees countered with, "And what are Etcetera's thoughts on that sentiment?"

The tabby took a gulp of Scotch. "Actually, she was all for me comin' here with you. She jus' said that if I ended up sleepin' with another tom, I'd hafta get pictures."

"As blackmail or for her own personal enjoyment?"

"I'm leanin' towards that second one. She's crazy 'bout that gay couple on _EastEnders_, y'know."

Giggling, the tuxedo leaned against the bar. "Well, that's something I didn't know about her."

"That's not even the half of it," Mungojerrie sighed. "I mean, she gets up earlier than's morally decent an'll sing—yes, _sing_—to the birds outside our window when I'm tryin' to get some sleep. Not only that, but every room she leaves looks like a tornado's been through it—and after livin' with Rumpleteazer for years, that's sayin' a _lot_." The tabby's eyes wandered to the dance floor. "She's mental, I'll tell you that much."

Mistoffelees hazarded a look in his friend's direction. Watching the throng of toms dancing to the club beat, Mungojerrie couldn't hide the fact that his dark eyes were warm. Almost sparkling. It often happened when he was talking about Etcetera, and there was a vague wrenching in the pit of the tuxedo's stomach. "You're mad about her, aren't you?" he asked with a breath.

"My friend, I am absolutely bonkers."

As Mungojerrie took another drink, Mistoffelees couldn't help but stare at the ground. Of course he was happy for his friend, but he still had to wonder if—no. No. He told himself not to think of the phone calls, what had happened that morning, the look on his face—

"Er. Um. Sorry 'bout that, mate."

At the sound of Mungojerrie's voice, the tuxedo was thrown off his train of thought. He looked up to find his friend wearing a sheepish grin. "Sorry about what?" The question fell from his lips—not as a matter of curiosity, but as a matter of obligation.

The tabby gave a shrug, glass in hand. "Well—y'know. The whole Etcetera thing. Didn't mean to upset you."

His friend blinked, and replied with a perfectly acted, "Mungo, you really didn't—"

"Mistoffelees, don't act like I can't see you poutin'," Mungojerrie quipped.

"I am _not_ pouting—"

"Are _too_." The tabby gave his friend another look. "Look, you an' I both know why you wanted to come 'ere tonight."

"Like dancing without due cause is a crime?" Mistoffelees grumbled, unamused. His eyes wandered back to the throng of cats on the floor.

Changing tactic, the tabby asked, "How many times has 'e called you tonight?"

Mistoffelees' gaze didn't flicker from the dance floor. "Four."

"An' how many times have you answered 'is calls?"

The tuxedo rolled his eyes. "Mungojerrie, this has nothing to do with—"

"It has everythin' to do with why we're 'ere!" Mungojerrie shook his head, and muttered after another swig of Scotch, "Everlastin' Cat—you're actin' jus' like 'im, y'know? Tryin' to avoid all the things you don't want to deal with."

Mistoffelees let out a breath. "Look, I just wanted a little bit of an escape. Go out, dance, drink, laugh, and enjoy myself." He swiveled in his seat to face his friend. "Is that so bad?"

As he ordered another drink, Mistoffelees heard his friend give a heavy sigh. "S'not that, Misto," he began, softening his voice with a hint of strain. "An' I don't mean to jump on top of you all of a sudden. It's just that—well, not right this minute, but eventually—you need to talk to 'im about it. Get some closure, y'know? See where you stand."

"I'm pretty sure I know where we stand," the tuxedo retorted, a sarcastic smirk touching his lips. When his vodka was presented in front of him, he downed it in a single gulp.

Mungojerrie moved to face the bar. "Misto, 'e's one of your best friends. Who knows?" His brown eyes were fixated on the small tom. "Maybe somethin' good'll come of this. But the point is that you're gonna hafta talk to 'im eventually."

Mistoffelees blinked, and he turned to meet his friend's gaze. "Since when are you the voice of reason?"

Mungojerrie's trademark grin was working its way onto the tom's face. "Since Munkustrap's not around to lecture the both of us."

In spite of himself, Mistoffelees was smiling, and he lowered his gaze to focus on the empty glass in his hand. He let out a deep breath and, sober, said, "I will. I promise—just…not tonight. I just want to forget for a little while longer."

Mungojerrie gave an understanding nod, and he reached over to pat his friend on the shoulder. "S'alright, mate. Sorry to bring down your evenin'."

"It's fine," Mistoffelees offered, looking up. "And thank you for bringing me out tonight."

"Misto, you were the one who called me, remember?"

"Well…same thing." There was Mungojerrie's grin again. "Either way—thanks."

As he stood up, the tabby gave Mistoffelees a wink. "Don't mention it." Swallowing the last drops of his drink, Mungojerrie set his glass down on the bar top and asked, "So, what say you an' me go show these pretty boys 'ow it's done? This music's pretty catchy."

With a laugh, Mistoffelees replied, "There is nothing in this world that I would enjoy more."

The tuxedo stood to join his friend, but before he could take a step away from the bar, he heard a familiar tune from behind him that made his heart sink.

His phone was ringing again.

He looked to the tabby, who was eyeing the cellular device with a gleam of interest. "You want me to answer it, don't you?"

Mungojerrie's gaze snapped up to meet Mistoffelees'. "Well—if you don't wanna tonight, you really don't hafta."

The phone kept ringing, a pre-programmed synth melody that was scarcely audible over the pounding of the bass on the dance floor. The tuxedo's eyes were fixated upon the lighted screen.

That name.

"Really, we can go an' dance if you wanna."

He couldn't take it anymore. With a groan and a prayer that he was doing the right thing, he snatched up his phone and gave a, "Hello?"

A smooth voice answered on the other end. "Hey, Misto."

"Hey, Tugger."

Rum Tum Tugger seemed to make some sort of reply, and Mistoffelees switched the phone to his other ear. "Hold on a second," the tuxedo interrupted. "I can't hear you." As he made his way to the nearby fire exit, Mungojerrie gave him a shrug and reclaimed his seat at the bar. The barest of static crept on the line as Mistoffelees walked, stagnant as he stopped at the door. The red of the "Exit" sign shone on him from above.

Steeling himself, Mistoffelees adjusted the phone in his hand. "Sorry about that," he said, casual. The music was a little softer here. "I couldn't hear you. What were you saying?"

"I was saying that I've been trying to call you for over an hour." Tugger gave a sigh. "Where the hell are you, anyway? I can hear the music you're listening to better than I can hear you."

"Dance club," Mistoffelees answered simply.

"Gay one?"

"Yeah." Mistoffelees raised an eyebrow. "Why do you care to know?"

"Just curious," came Tugger's response.

There was a short pause on the line before Mistoffelees supplied the question, "Aren't you supposed to be at work right now?" Somehow, he managed to keep his tone even.

"I am," answered Tugger with all his trademark finesse. "I've got small breaks at the radio station—commercials, y'know? That's when I've been calling you, before I have to go on the air again."

"Ah."

Another silence passed between the two toms, and over the club music that pounded in his ears, Mistoffelees could still hear the dormant crackling of phone static. He cast a glance at the dusty floor, growing uneasy at the thought of talking to the Maine Coon any longer. "Look, Tugger," he started with an exasperated sigh, "what do you want? I'm kind of busy."

Tugger's tone was vaguely sharper when he replied with, "Busy doing what? Are you there with someone?"

Given the perfect opening, the tuxedo couldn't help yielding to temptation. "Mungojerrie's here with me," he answered evenly, honestly. "And I met a nice tom when I was dancing not too long ago." A pause. "His name's Jonathan," Mistoffelees added for effect.

"And what's all been going on between you and _Jonathan_?" Tugger said it like name itself needed a good disinfecting.

"None of your concern," Mistoffelees retorted, and he bit his lip as soon as he said it. He needed to stay cool, but, with a little less conviction, he asked, "Tugger, just…what do you want?"

The Maine Coon gave a deep sigh. The tuxedo could picture the way Tugger would often rub his temples when he got frustrated; he could hear the way Tugger struggled to keep his tone light. "I, um—I think we left things on a bad note this morning."

The tuxedo held his tongue, though he was burning to let out a scream. His eyes clenched shut, he racked his brain for a good response. He had to play this well. "What would make you say that?" Every word was controlled, deliberate.

"Oh, I dunno," Tugger replied, and a bitter edge had crept into his tone. "Maybe the fact that you stormed out before I could say anything? Before I could explain what was going on? Or maybe it was the fact that you've refused to talk to me all day even though I've called you a hundred times?"

Opting to ignore the latter half of Tugger's subdued fulmination, Mistoffelees shrugged. "I thought I was interrupting something," he said, leaning against the exit door. Through the fabric of his shirt, he could feel the handle, cool against his lower back. Club music raged on and he kept his eyes on the ground. "Didn't want to be a nuisance."

With a groan, Tugger breathed, "Misto, there wasn't _anything_ going on between me and Alonzo. Everlasting Cat, you should _know_ that—"

"Sure didn't seem like it," the tuxedo hissed, and he shut his eyes again. He couldn't ruin this—he had to stay calm. Cool. Collected.

He wasn't going to be the weak one.

"Alright, so you want me to admit to it?" Tugger asked as Mistoffelees opened his eyes. "Fine—I was kissing Alonzo, alright? But you didn't wait to hear me out."

"I wasn't aware that there was anything you had to explain," Mistoffelees drawled, and he examined his claws for good effect.

He was doing a much better job with his tone this time.

"Misto, just listen, will you?" The Maine Coon sounded as though he was trying to mask his desperation and Mistoffelees felt a strange tugging in his chest. "He's the one who came onto me. I've told you how the two of us used to operate."

The small tom interrupted with, "The hate sex, you mean?"

"Well, yeah, but—look, this morning, he came over to my apartment. Looking for a good time, you know? And usually, I'm all for it, but—I was trying to get him to leave me alone, but just as soon as I was about to shove him out, he started kissing me."

"I could see that much," Mistoffelees chirped.

"I wanted to push him off, but—" Tugger heaved a heavy sigh. "Look, Misto, I was just so bloody used to going with it that I didn't know what I was doing. I wasn't thinking straight—it was like I was on autopilot or something."

"Autopilot?" the tuxedo repeated, crossing one arm over his chest.

Mistoffelees could hear Tugger grumbling, "That or something like it, yeah."

"So." Absently, the tuxedo was staring off at the dance floor, the toms and queens writhing about to the beat of an electric bass. "You weren't _intentionally_ snogging Alonzo," he recapped, casual. "It just kind of…happened."

Another groan from Tugger's end of the line. "Well, when you say it like that—"

"Why are you calling to tell me this, anyway?" Mistoffelees interrupted, his tone clipped. He was getting too frustrated to completely reign in his inflection. "Did you just want to clear your conscience? Make yourself out to be the good guy? What?"

Tugger never apologized. It was a fact.

The tuxedo heard a small breath on Tugger's end and his stomach churned.

"Misto, look, I just—" Tugger took another breath, seemingly steeling himself. "I know this last week…between you and me, I mean…well. I've enjoyed myself. Thought you did, too, with what we had going on."

Forcing the words to come out clearly, the tuxedo replied with a shaky, "We didn't have anything to begin with."

They didn't. Tugger believed it. He had to believe it, too.

"Yeah, but—okay, maybe, but we could have been starting something, y'know?" By this point the words were all but floundering out of Tugger's mouth. "Sure, it's only been sex, but—well, I kinda thought that you'd think it, too—"

No. No, no, no. Mistoffelees couldn't hear those words. He couldn't deal with the softening tone of Tugger's voice, couldn't give into that childish yearning in the back of his mind—

"—well, maybe it went a little beyond the sex, y'know? And I know you do like me, and—"

"I have to go."

Tugger seemed almost as shocked at hearing the words as Mistoffelees was to say them. "What?"

Mistoffelees swallowed, his eyes wrenched shut. "Tugger, I really have to go. It looks like Mungojerrie's going to be sick, so I've got to go and help him."

The tabby was still sitting at the bar, and gave Mistoffelees a look of concern as the tuxedo took a step away from the door. All he wanted was for Tugger to stop talking.

Tugger's voice was still in the tuxedo's ear, faltering. "Look, Misto, I was just wanting to—"

"I'll talk to you later, Tugger."

And before the Maine Coon could respond, Mistoffelees hung up.

He let out a sigh and ran his hands over his face, forcing himself to breathe. He couldn't stand to hear Tugger grabbing at false apologies, or his insinuating that there was actually something going on between the two of them. That he had actually wanted Mistoffelees in the first place.

He hadn't, and Mistoffelees couldn't handle that false hope anymore.

He raised his sights. Mungojerrie was looking at him, waving for the small tom to join him on the dance floor. The club beat was pounding, and toms and queens moved to the music without reservation.

Escape.

He stepped out onto the floor, and like an instinct, his hips began to move in time with the electric bass.

Before he slipped his phone into his pocket, he put it on silent. For some reason, it was easy to put on a smile.

Maybe he'd have to deal with it later—talk to Tugger, get some closure, and officially end what little they had, but for now, the tuxedo was going to let himself fall subject to the bliss of ignorance.

And right now, with the club beat pounding and the lights flashing and the handful of toms that sent smiles his way, all Mistoffelees wanted to do was dance.


End file.
